


Busy Bee

by benrumo



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-26
Updated: 2011-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:38:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benrumo/pseuds/benrumo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sollux is a busy, busy bumblebee who dreams he’s young and immortal. But not all lessons are ones you can learn from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Busy Bee

You wake when your phone rings for the fifth time. “Dismiss” registers in your sleep-addled mind where the four snoozes you can scarcely remember ignoring didn’t.

You pull yourself up out of bed as you turn off the alarm. It’s the only way to assure you won’t fall back asleep once your head stops ringing. You check the time, wondering if maybe you could program in another 15 minutes of sleep and still make it to school. You can’t. You already knew that, just like you already know you can’t afford to miss any more class unexcused.

You do the math and realize you really need to get moving. Just because you can get ready in five minutes doesn’t mean you will. When you’re this tired, you know you have a fucking useless habit of spacing out at all the wrong moments.

You have to convince your body to move. Why is it that your pillows never feel this soft when you should actually be sleeping? The steam from your shower burns your eyes but goes a long way to waking you up. You stay in just long enough for the heat and moisture to sooth your aching head. When you get out, you can’t remember whether or not you washed your hair. You know you didn’t wash your body. You’re not going to shave, either. Your appearance is the very least of your concerns at the moment.

You throw on the same shirt you’ve been wearing for the past four days. No one will realize under your hoodie. You put on the same jeans and underwear you’ve probably been wearing for longer because who the fuck cares about blue jeans? And it’s not like anybody’s going to get close enough to care about your underwear but you.

You triple-check the coding project on your flash drive. Not because you’re that much of a perfectionist (at least, not when you’re this tired) but because your eyes can’t focus on the text long enough to get through the entire thing in one glance. You finally give in and decide to put faith in the work you did last night. You don’t have much of a choice. You’re pretty much useless in this state.

Satisfied, or as close to satisfied as you’re going to get, you throw the flash drive into your bag and grab your keys.

Feferi bitches from the moment you text her to tell her you’re on your way. She bitches all the way to the car because you’re all of six minutes late. But she cuts the bitchfest short when she gets a good look at you.

The two of you can hardly understand one another. You’ve lived in America all your life, but you’re first generation with a heavy Indian accent. You’ve got less of an accent than either of your dads, but your lisp pretty much decimates whatever advantage you might have gained from that. You have no idea why the crazy foreign exchange student latched onto you. Between your accent and hers, proper communication is next to impossible.

Despite all that, she can somehow read your moods like an open book. The moment she gets in the car she realizes you’re going through another one of your mental benders. She lets you play your soft, instrumental music without complaint, even though you know she prefers upbeat, pop songs. She doesn’t even complain when you pull into a gas station to buy two energy drinks.

You’re starting to learn that energy drinks can only bring you back so far. They’re almost like health potions in that respect. They’ve got a cap of 200 HP, and you’re too far in the hole for that to fix your deficit. They don’t stack well either. Drinking both of them fast enough will do a good deal to getting you functional, but it’ll leave your hands shaking too hard to type. You know it’s not a real solution. You know it’s not healthy. But you’ll let the lesson sink in next time. For now, you just need to make it through one more day.

You offer to buy FF something, trying to make up for the added delay, but she passes up the offer.

You wonder for the millionth time why she puts up with you as you pull back on the road. You are so fucking useless. She asks so little of you and you can’t even give her that without fucking it up somehow. You don’t know why she bothers relying on someone like you. If she could get her own license, you know she’d have nothing to do with you. She’s only been in this country for six months and she’s already adapted better than you have in your entire life. God, you are such a fuck-up. She deserves so much better than you.

But you’ll make it up to her tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then sometime soon. You’ll do better by her just as soon as you get out of this bender.

FF screams your name. Her hand shoots out and grabs yours on the wheel. You don’t understand why until you hear the horn blare. A blue streak of steel and glass fills your vision. It takes your mind too long to process the image. Once you do, it’s too late. The side of the Mustang is already crumpling against the hood of your car.

FF screams again, wordless. The car horn blares, then abruptly cuts off in time with the world jerking off balance. Your head bangs against the steering wheel. Your energy drink flies out of your hand and splashes against the windshield. You remember to slam on the breaks years too late to make a difference. The airbags blow. Your car hitches to the side. Another blunt jolt sends your head into the window. You hear something crack. You hear metal rend and engines whine pitifully. You hear more car horns from every direction. You don’t hear Feferi.

Just as fast as the world turned to chaos, everything goes still. Noises surround you, but you can’t process them over the blood rushing in your ears. Everything seems distant, and then it’s all gone.

Your brain can’t process. You can’t derive any information from the input slowly filtering back in. All you feel is a sense of urgency you can’t place. It’s too far away to act on. And the pain. The words floating around you make as much sense as the four snoozes you slept through this morning. You wonder if this is all a dream. You’ve felt pain in your dreams before.

You slowly come back from the fog and the haze. It’s dark. So dark you can’t see. You can hear a voice somewhere beside you.

“…went to see what happened to the asshole in the other car. He’s only three doors down. In a hell of a lot better shape than…”

You try to focus on the sound but it fades away before you can grasp it. You’re left with the impression you know the speaker. The dream shifts before you can identify him. Raspy, cement voice. Volume too loud. He’s got two settings, just like you. On and off, and no in-between. Only his busted brain doesn’t get him killed. Not unless he mouths off to the wrong person. But at least he learns. You never do.

“…there? Are you with me, man? Fuck. Come on! You can’t keep falling asleep. If you do…”

The threat doesn’t make it through. Signal lost. Disconnected. Gone, gone, gone.

“…stupid fucking asshole’s perfectly fine. He keeps yelling about how he’s going to sue. I thought about punching his face in. I probably should have, just on principle. I should have ripped his goddamned intestines out through his nostrils and fed him his own shit. Sorry motherfucker. Not a shred of decency. Only thing he lost is his fucking car. He doesn’t have any goddamned right…”

The words finally make sense. KK. Of course he’s here. You want to laugh, but your body’s too far away.

“…can’t believe it. How could this happen?”

For the first time, the words end not because you’ve lost them but because Karkat’s too busy crying to bitch. You think he’s crying. It’s hard to tell when you’re in the dark like this.

You try to open your eyes, but you can’t. The motion still brings you closer to where your body is. You’re suddenly acutely aware of the pain. Every hurt hurts sharp and the rest of you is lost in the dark mire.

You try to move your hand, but you can’t find your fingers. Your arm feels like stone. You try to open your eyes and fail again. Something’s holding them shut. They sting worse than they ever have from hours staring at small text on a screen.

You try out your voice. It doesn’t work properly the first time, but the second time you manage a close approximation of KK’s name.

You hear him stop crying. You note the absence of noise more than you had the noise itself.

“Fuck, you’re actually there. Yeah, man, it’s me. I’m here. Fuck. God, I’m scared to touch you. I’m here, though.”

“What…”

You can’t think of a question to ask.

“You were in a car accident. Do you remember? Apparently you T-boned some rich hipster asshole. Fucker’s got this stupid dyed streak in his hair you wouldn’t even believe.”

“Mm.”

You remember. As much as you want to, anyway.

“You’re… you’re not in good shape, man. The doctors said you’ll recover eventually, but it was pretty touch-and-go there for awhile. There’s, um… Shit. I don’t even know if I should be telling you this. Don’t freak out, OK?”

“Won’t,” you promise, and it’s not a lie. Maybe they’ve got you pumped full of meds. You can’t bring yourself to be worried. Despite everything, you’re somehow OK. In your own head, at least. Which is insane, considering how high-strung you normally are. If nothing else, the fact that you’re not worrying should worry you. But it doesn’t. You’re just OK.

“Look. There’s… Fuck, you massive fucking idiot. You unbelievable fuck-up. You’re not going to be able to brush this one off. You’ve finally gone and done it. You’ve done permanent damage to yourself this time. How could you be this fucking stupid? Not to mention… Goddamn it, Captor!”

“What?”

You want to hear it. You can take it. Whatever it is, it’s OK. You want to tell KK to stop flipping the fuck out, but you know he’s probably incapable of it. But it’s OK, you’re OK with that too.

“No. Don’t worry about it, you useless fuck. You need to rest.”

“It’th OK, KK,” you try to convince him, but you don’t have the energy to explain.

“What did I just say, fuckass? Shut up and rest.”

You smile. Caring, KK-style. Exactly what you need after a major catastrophe. You consider telling KK to switch his major and become a nurse. The thought of him in a nurse’s uniform is enough to make you laugh. It hurts, but the image is worth it.

“Oh, great, Captor. Laughter is exactly what this situation needed. Ha ha ha. Death and destruction is fucking hilarious. This is the reason I took sick leave. I didn’t want to miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for some Grade-A humor.”

It’s probably a testament to how damaged you already are that he doesn’t punch you.

A thought worms its way to the surface of your calm, OK mind.

“How’th FF?”

You can feel the anxiety the question provokes. You can almost see KK’s tense, bad posture in your mind’s eye. You can pretty much guess what he’s wearing too. KK’s closet offers less variety than yours. He never grew out of that all-black phase that’s only ever been cool among 13 year-olds. You decide to substitute in the nurse’s outfit for the hell of it. If you’ve got to hear KK bitch, you should at least get something out of it.

“…Fuck. No. I can’t do this right now.”

“It’th fine, KK. Tell me.”

“No!” he yells at a volume loud even for him. “You’re high as a fucking kite and… You can’t even see what a magnificently shitty state you’re in. You’re fucking roadkill. It’s making me sick just looking at you. And all you can do is sit there and laugh. Fuck you for making me deal with all your shit, you waste of fucking space. I don’t know why the fuck I even stuck around this long.”

You don’t mind leaving the topic. Now that your mind’s starting to work again you have dozens of questions, and not one of them seems more pressing or important than another.

“So, why can’t I see?”

“Because, you stupid, fucking son of a bitch, the fire may have burned your eyes right out of your busted-up skull.”

You can hear how hard he tries, but he can’t keep the anger strong through the whole declaration.

“Y-you might be fucking blind, Captor. As in permanently. Like everything else wasn’t fucking enough.”

You can hear the sniff clear as day. He’s crying again.

“It’th OK. Really, KK. It’th going to be OK. Come here. Hold my hand.”

You try to hold your hand out to him, but he stops you.

“No, not that one,” he says, his voice a touch too high and strained. He sniffs again, but manages to get his voice under control. “That one’s… You fucking. Lost. Some stuff.”

You hear his steps as he crosses to the other side of your bed. You lift your hand in anticipation, your fingers searching him out since your eyes can’t. Eventually, his hand finds yours. It’s warm.

“Here,” he says, gently squeezing your fingers. He’s more gentle with you than he would be with a new-born infant.

“Jethuth, KK, I’m not going to fall apart,” you joke.

“Fuck you. You’re in no position to say that,” he shoots back, but he takes your hand a little more firmly in his.

“You thaid it yourthelf. I’m going to be OK. Tho calm down.”

“Once again, you fail to grasp the most basic of concepts. I didn’t say you were going to be OK, fucktard. I just said you weren’t going to die.”

“Oh.”

Cognitively you understand the distinction, but it doesn’t seem to matter much. Your calm feeling is unshakable.

“No, Captor, you’re not going to be OK. You’re never going to be OK again.”

KK starts crying again, this time with intermixed swears. There’s no sign that he’ll stop anytime soon. You pull him as close as you can with only your hand. You eventually coax him to lay his head down on the bed beside you. It takes forever, but once you get him to give in and let you run your hand through his hair, he manages to calm down. Your hand starts to ache after a few minutes, but it’s a distant ache and soothing KK is more important.

The world’s a little fuzzy at the edges. You think maybe you’re fading in and out again, but you can’t tell. KK doesn’t complain, at any rate.

Eventually, a doctor comes in to poke and prod at you. She tells you that they’ve managed to contact your parents. Your dads are on the way now. They should be here shortly. She goes over the particulars of your condition. She gives you about as much information as KK did, but she’s more vague and polite about it. You ask her about FF, but she feeds you the same excuses. Not now, just rest.

Once they’re gone, KK breaks the news.

“She didn’t fucking make it. Stop asking.”

Understanding sinks slow and deep like a stone. It’s heavy, but it doesn’t hurt.

KK stays until visiting hours are over. When he can’t stand looking at you any longer, he goes down the hall to get a soda. He brings back stories about the guy you hit. You find them all oddly funny, despite the situation. He makes KK furious, and you’re grateful to him for that. A furious KK is better than a crying KK. If not for your sake, than definitely for his.

KK picks a fight with the nurses when they tell him to leave. He yells something about his official duties and how he’s practically your first of kin. He’s tired and cranky, and it doesn’t win him any favors. You’re not exactly sad to see him go, it’s OK, but the world feels still once he’s gone.

You float in and out, unable to either sleep or stay awake, until your dads arrive. You don’t notice the doctors giving you any drugs, but the calm, OK feeling stays with you. Maybe they’re dosing you while you’re asleep, but something in you doubts it. You toyed with various recreational drugs back in high school and your first year of college. This doesn’t feel like that. The world’s hazy and your mind and body aren’t exactly connected, but you’re not stoned.

KK comes back in the morning to see you off at check-out. He sounds ten times worse than you feel, which honestly isn’t saying much. You jokingly ask if he got hit by a bus, sending him into a diatribe of hateful swearing. You can sense the concern under it as plain as day. Maybe your dads can too, because they leave him to watch you when they go to fill out your release forms.

You feel more or less OK. A little dizzy, and your right hand is basically a useless wad of gauze, but your legs are fine and you feel generally alright. Nobody will let you walk, which is probably for the best because you’re now legally blind. KK is little more than a vague, oblong smear of black against the indistinct white of the hospital. Your vision could improve, but the chances are slim. You’ve been encouraged not to get your hopes up.

KK’s floundering helplessly again, full of that particular brand of anger that means he’s at his breaking point. You don’t want to hear him cry again.

You interrupt his bitching by wobbling to your feet. You quickly find wheelchairs don’t make the best support when it rolls away the moment you put counter-pressure on it from the wrong angle. You almost fall, but you use what’s left of your momentum to propel yourself into KK’s arms. He catches you at the last second. You’re taller than he is, but he’s stronger. He manages to keep the two of you on your feet, but just barely.

He gets in a few choice words at your latest display of sheer stupidity before you kiss him.

It’s a short kiss, just a brief, chaste peck. You haven’t exactly had access to a toothbrush, so the moment you need to breath you turn the kiss into a hug.

You’ve known KK’s had a crush on you since the dawn of time. He’s just had his head too far up his ass to act on it. And you, you simply didn’t know how to react. But now your head’s clear and you know exactly what to do.

KK’s speechless in your arms, but he’s holding on to you tight. You take that as a good sign.

He swears and pulls back as far as he can without dumping you on the ground. It doesn’t take you long to figure out it’s because your dads are back. You are certain they’re giving KK gooey-mushy looks that are making his no-way-not-gay ass flip the fuck out.

You’re passed from KK’s arms to your dads’. They settle you back in the wheelchair and declare you’re officially checked out.

You raise your good hand towards KK’s blurry form. He hesitates like the insecure baby he is but eventually gives in. You twine your fingers in his.

“Goodbye, KK.”

Then you let go.

The ride back home is uneventful. Your dads take turns playing good cop, bad cop with you, each alternating between tearing you apart with disappointment and coddling you as tight as they dare. Neither says a word about the damage you’ve done, not to the hipster’s car, and not to FF. Not even to your own car. You can’t see to tell for sure, but you can sense the way they both avoid the damage you’ve done to yourself most of all.

You spend the next two days at home in bed. You’ve been prescribed pain-killers, but you don’t take them. No one believes you when you say the pain isn’t that bad. You don’t blame them. You find it hard to believe yourself as the distance between you and your body fades to nothing and you take stock of your injuries. You wonder what happened to the first two fingers on your right hand, amputated away at some point in your hospital stay, but you suppose you’ll never know.

The third morning after, you realize you have enough strength in your legs to make the trip you’ve been planning since you were taken home. You pull yourself out of bed and rely on touch and memory to navigate your childhood home. Once outside, getting to the hives is simplicity in itself. You just follow the sound of the bees.

You walk slowly once you near the hives. You’ve never dared to do this before, but you’re certain it will work. And if not, that’s OK too.

You can see the circle of hives in your mind’s eye. You wonder around, trying to approximate where the center is from memory. A couple of bees take notice of you, but your presence doesn’t seem to cause much of a stir. In the end, you sit down where the humming is loudest. You close your eyes, blocking out what little light they still take in, and let the bees flock on you. They land on your face and crawl up the loose sleeves of your shirt, but they haven’t stung you yet.

You lean your head down to rest your chin on your knees and hum along with the song of the hives. It’ll happen soon. The bees are already drawn to the moisture on your lips. You wonder if they can sense some little piece of KK left behind.

You open your mouth and sing.

“There wath an old lady who thwollowed a fly.”

You sing slowly around the little explorers already filling your mouth.

“Perhapth the’ll die.”

You try to keep count but quickly lose track of all the little legs and wing beats. The buzzing is almost deafening.

“But it’th OK, I’m OK with that too,” you say so low it’s little more than a hum, a buzz in the back of your throat.

Then you close your lips tight.

**Author's Note:**

> Personal concerns, just in case anybody wants to comment on them: I kind of worry about how Karkat comes off in this. I like his dialogue. Actually, I think this is one of the only times I've ever written his dialogue with decent results and not just FUCKING NOOKSNIFFER. But I worry about how whiny he comes off. In my head he's not being all that weepy. He's more sniffly, try-to-hold-it-in-and-be-tough. But because this is written through Sollux's perspective, he sees Karkat as being a huge, whiny baby. So when Sollux says "crying" he probably just hears Karkat trying to keep his snot-fountain under control or breathing kind of rough. Even when Karkat finally loses it, I don't see him full out weeping like he does over Sollux's corpse in HS. He's definitely crying there, but not straight up wailing.
> 
> But I don't know if that's how it comes off to the reader, which makes me a bit mad because I don't know how to fix it and I think that whole scene is the best part of this. >:(


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